Monday, September 17, 2007

Mets Live Blog Action!!!

A little intro for ya...

It is currently 9:34 p.m., and in the top of the 7th inning the Mets are down 9-4 to the Nationals. And what a game it has been! I've heard of this New York Mets baseball franchise here and there in my years, but they've never been my favorite team in all of sports or anything. (I've always been a Rutgers man, first and foremost. Go Knights!) But I've been doing a little counting, and I wanted to relay a few quick numbers from yesterday's game vs. the Phillies (which these Metropolitans, or whatever you call them, lost 10-6) and tonight's. Since the 1 p.m. start time yesterday, the Mets have committed a total of 8 errors (not counting at least 3 more that for some reason were not called errors tonight), issued 16 walks, and given up 20 runs. That's in a grand total of about 32 hours. Whew. I swear, if I had ever been a big Mets fan or something, I'd probably want to shoot myself in the penis right about now. But since I'm not and never have been a Mets fan, I've elected to follow along with this game and chug a full beer if the Mets commit another error, walk another batter, or yield another run. Oh, and I'm going to pretend, for the time being, that I've always been a Mets fan. Okay, let's go!

9:38 p.m. With Lastings Milledge on first and no one out, pinch-hitter Ruben Gotay strikes out looking. Good eye on the rookie, he'll be a star. Now up, Jose Reyes, who softly grounds to second. What a pussy. "Ya really knocked the crap outta that," as the great Clew Haywood once said. (Anyone get the reference? I hope so.) Blastings moves up to second. Now up, Luis Castillo, who bloops a single to left. Lastings Milledge, of course, doesn't bother to score or anything. I don't get it -- here's a young, athletic black dude who for some reason runs like Mike Piazza. The phrase "deceptively slow" has never been more appropriate. And now up, David Wright. Nice, we've got our best hitter, our young stud, "the future," "the golden boy," up there with two men on. Great. And what does he do? He swings like a little girl with a lazy eye and the hands of Jim Abbott as his "grounder" reaches an astonishing 30 feet. The Nats pitcher guns him out at first, beating him by only about 30 feet or so. Ah well...

9:42 p.m. Willie Collazo in to pitch for the Metsies, and my first thought is, "Who the fuck is Willie Collazo?" And I'll thank the Mets broadcasting team of Gary Cohen and Keith Hernandez for not informing me whatsoever about this rando at all, like he's been on the team for years. Thanks guys, I really appreciated the nonsensical discussion of Gary Cooper vs. Gary Carter instead. With one down, some National named Lopez hits a ground-rule double. Almost a dinger! I thought I might get to have a drink, but alas, I must postpone my desperately desired liquid meal of fermented hops and barley. Pitching change! Someone allegedly named "Joe Smith" is coming in. Are you being serious here, Gary and Keith? Do you just not know the guy's name, so you decided to go with the most common name in America? Okay, piss break.

9:55 p.m. HIT PAUSE ON THE DVR! Some guy whose name is seriously "Nook Logan" just blooped a single into right and -- unlike the sloth-like Lastings Milledge -- Lopez actually hustles around third and scores! Booze time! Okay, this'll only be a few seconds... Okay, I'm back.

9:57 p.m. That Nook Logan guy tries to steal second and ERROR! The ball goes into center field. Time to drink, baby! This is easier than I thought! (Chugs another beer.)

9:59 p.m. Oh shit. Ryan Church just hit a 2-run homer. Maybe this wasn't the best idea. Ah well, what the hell, time to down another two. I'm starting to feel like a freshman pledge. Alcohol poisoning and hospital, here we come!

10:03 p.m. Keith Hernandez: Someone's got to take the lead now on this ballclub.
Gary Cohen (clearly sneering at Keith): What does that mean, exactly?
KH: Someone's got to shake this team... (trails off)
GC: Like a parent who's angry with their baby for crying too much?

(He didn't actually say that, but by the tone of Gary's "0 and 2 to Zimmerman," I just know that's what he wanted to say.)

10:05 p.m. Gary wonders if it might help to "have a player who's a screamer." I don't know what context he's referring to, but sure, why not? Keith responds, "That's a very good question. I don't think screaming does anything with today's players." Ah the repartee of two future Emmy-winning broadcasters with a chemistry not seen since Romeo and Juliet...

10:07 p.m. Arnie Munoz in to pitch for the Nats. I swear, I'm not making these names up. Carlos Beltran pops up. Nice job. Perhaps, as LJT suggested to me the other day, we should start calling him Carla Beltran. Bitch. I hate him with a violent energy. Like how Sonny felt about Carlo when they had that "chat" in the street.

10:10 p.m. Wow, those consecutive chuggings are kicking in. I do not recommend anyone repeating this practice. And I'm starting to regret only buying a 12-pack of Yuengling for tonight's "game." It hasn't even been a full inning yet.

10:11 p.m. Ramon Castro up at bat, the third Mets catcher of the night, and definitely the fattest and most dictator-name-having, easily beating out Paul Lo Duca (not quite Mussolini) and Mike DeFelice (who comes in a distant third in the dictator-name contest).

10:15 p.m. Blastings strikes out (looking, natch) with two men on to end the inning. Ah fuck it, this just means that now the Mets go back out into the field, so I actually have a chance of drinking. Let's hope I don't eat (drink?) my words...

10:18 p.m. The guy with the boring-as-fuck name is still pitching. I can't believe I've only been doing this for one full inning, yet I've already had to chug four beers. Like they said about the Wizard of Oz, that's both great and terrible. Wow, yet another play that should have been called an error, but is scored as a hit, as Reyes continues his sudden insistence on refusing to pick up ground balls. And it was on a 3-2 count, so I barely escaped another chug there twice on the same pitch. Cool. Cool and sucky.

10:23 p.m. Though not pertinent whatsoever to this post, my roommate's friend just uttered a phrase I've never heard: "There's nothing hotter than when a hot guy's ass is just falling out of his pants." It may not sound so odd at first, but the person who said it in a completely serious manner? He's a dude.

10:24 p.m. I was about to skip forward through the Mets' at bat (I'm a bit behind on the DVR), before I realized this will likely be the last half inning. So new rules: If another Met strikes out looking, I'll chug. And if the game ends with Mets in scoring position, I'll chug. And if the Mets stage a dramatic 8-run comeback, I'll actually go forward with shooting myself in the penis, as I suggested earlier. Let's see what happens!

10:26 p.m. After two quick outs, it's down to Luis Castillo, who has a normal name. (Finally!) If something exceptional happens in this at-bat, I'll chug. But I'm sensing a pop-up to second. And, yes, if that does in fact occur, I'll chug.

10:28 p.m. Weak ground ball to the pitcher. I couldn't have scripted that ending better. I think I'd better just get rid of this beer anyway. Wow, what an amazing, soul-lifting experience this has been.

If I actually was a Mets fan, I'd probably be pretty depressed. Here are the final totals over the past two games: 10 errors (which should really be 14), 16 walks, 22 runs allowed. Believe it or not, they lost both games! But who cares, right? Let's go Rutgers!


**shoots self in penis**

And hey, if you're still reading, you can also check out this post on Armchair GM, a site that totally rules because apparently at least one person there actually read our little blog here! Oh, and give me some votes or something. I'm not quite sure how it works yet, but hey, that's what this Ph.D in Thermonuclear Physics from Cal-Tech is for, right?


Side Bar said...

I feel like I had this new puppy -- let's call him "October" -- and I was so excited about playing with my new puppy, and spending lots of time getting to know him. Then, before I could even get October home, he escaped, ran out into the middle of the street and got run over by a cement mixer. Then, as October lay writhing in the street, clinging to life, some little old lady on a Rascal scooter drove up the street . . . I thought to myself, thank god, this little old lady is just what October needs. She paused next to him, looked down in pity, and then she ran him over too.

Worse still, the little old lady on the Rascal scooter didn't even have a winning record.

Open Bar said...

That was an outstanding story.